Vacation Time
by UnpublishedWriter
Summary: From the Gatchamania Gift Exchange challenge.  Ken and Joe are on vacation.  Hint of slash.


Vacation Time

"What is it with people?" Ken griped after the umpty-third phone call from the airstrip. "Did Galactor zap everyone with a stupid ray while we weren't looking?"

Joe took the cell phone and turned it off. "Your mistake was telling them you'd be available this week," he said, shoving it to the bottom of Ken's bag. "You get anal when you have time to concentrate on the airstrip. No wonder they call you about every little thing instead of making the decisions themselves. Even though they do just fine when you're away."

Unfortunately for Ken, Joe was right. When he had time for his non-Science Ninja Team activities, he _did_ over-manage. On (and off) duty, he had the team to keep him (mostly) in line, but his employees didn't argue with him much. Yet he'd never found anything wrong when he was able to run his civilian cover. (Nambu warned him about this tendency: Galactor agents could work out his identity through the pattern.) This time, Joe had taken action.

The two young men had a week off, and Joe had convinced Ken to go to Ameris with him. He suggested a road trip, just driving until they found a likely place and stopping to have a bit of fun that didn't involve racing, flying, or Galactor. That part had surprised Ken, since Joe seemed to live for both racing and fighting Galactor. Which, he realized, was why they were doing this, and in Ameris. The events on BC Island were barely a week old. They needed a true break from everything.

Ken's plane and Joe's car were on the GodPhoenix (just in case), and they'd rented a perfectly ordinary Toyota Corolla at the airport. Not a truck, or an off-road capable vehicle, or two motorcycles. Just a couple of guys seeing the sights. Not Eagle and Condor.

Their first day had been the plane trip to the state of Georgia in Ameris. Like many non-residents, the two had expectations based on movies and television programs. So the large, urban capital city of Atlanta, with gridlock and confusing streets, and the home offices of several corporations and a cable network, was a bit of a surprise.

Another surprise was just how far it extended. Over the years, the city had grown until the 'metro area' included numerous smaller communities within it. Some were towns in their own right, some had recently become towns, and others were unincorporated communities. On the map, it looked as if one could literally cross a street from one town to another.

"At some point, we have to find countryside," Ken said, looking at the map.

"Maybe if we were chased by a mecha. That always seems to bring on the rural areas."

Ken almost protested, then thought back and chuckled.

"I did my research. We aren't taking 85 or 75. They're all built up. We're taking 20 – if we can get there."

Trying to watch street signs and negotiate the airport traffic resulted in wrong turns that Joe couldn't correct easily. If anything, he was quickly confused by the welter of signs, even with the GPS in his cell phone. Then they had trouble finding an exit for a turnaround. It wasn't always obvious what road went where.

After finding their way to Forest Park, they stopped, got oriented with GPS and map, and debated whether to take I-75 or 285. After some discussion, they settled on I-75. It wouldn't add that much more to the trip if they took it and got off onto 285, rather than simply turning around. They could take advantage of their mistake and look around the town a bit (after all, that was the main plan). Both had in mind gifts for friends and each other, and small Amerisian towns seemed to host antiques stores and other little places with unique merchandise.

On Main Street, they found a military surplus store and a store that sold newer police and security items, along with other small shops. They diligently didn't watch each other picking things out. Ken had discovered a bad habit of second-guessing himself when he knew what Joe had gotten for someone. Joe, for his part, either beat Ken to a display case or waited until he was well away from it. They finished sooner than they expected.

On the way to I-75:

"We're not stopping at the shooting range, Joe."

"C'mon!"

"Wasn't the idea to get away from work?"

"Okay, okay, but don't think I didn't see you ogling the swords and knives at the truck stop."

"Most of them were just for the buyer to display."

"So?"

They got back onto 285 without incident. After some traffic-tag, Jason exited onto 20 and headed east. "Once we get clear of all this, we can pick an exit and see what else we find."

It took a while to shake the traffic. In Ameris, people tended to live in suburban 'bedroom communities' and drive to work or to shop, especially outside the urban areas of the North and Northeast. Amegapolis, like Utoland City, had its share of trains, buses, and taxis.

The freeway system in Ameris bypassed small towns that had once been the intersections of local roads. While many were still living and vibrant, others had died and still others barely hung on. Ken wondered how he would react if they drove into one of those struggling towns. Surely there was some way the ISO could help, some projects which could use the skills languishing out here?

Could Galactor hide a base in or near an abandoned or struggling town? Perhaps not. Constructing the base out here would attract attention. Locals would investigate any unusual activity. And he doubted that Galactor could subvert everyone in a town into membership. In this part of Ameris, people hadn't forgotten their civil war (called by different names, depending on one's political views). Some still wanted to secede and form their own nation. Secessionist or not, they had fierce loyalties, and none of those were to Galactor's goal of world domination.

On the other hand, Galactor had managed to plant bases under major cities and amusement parks, so perhaps they could pull off a base in such sparsely-populated areas. With the right inducements, they could even make recruits.

All the more reason to get the ISO out here. In meetings, Hakase pushed for involving local people in the organization's many projects.

He also saw the famed kudzu. Not as much in some places as in others. The vine that was under control in Japan was all over the place here. Galactor could cause trouble just by moving it into a few more locations, he thought. How had the stuff gotten to Ameris? Had it escaped from a garden or botanical park?

They stopped in Covington for lunch, again getting a bit turned around before finding a restaurant that wasn't part of a chain. Ken reached into his bag for his phone, and Joe slapped his hand. "No, Ken."

"But" –

"They'll just leave message after message if you call every time we stop. You did it to yourself by second-guessing everything whenever you had time to deal with the airstrip. Let them do their jobs." Before Ken could protest more, he added, "The place didn't fall apart before you took possession, it hasn't done so because you spend 90% of your time fighting Galactor, and it won't fall apart now."

Sighing, Ken left the phone.

* * *

While the plan was to get off at an exit, Joe did have a destination if they could not agree on one. He'd picked Macon because it wasn't comparatively well-known like Savannah (a port city) or Columbus (Fort Benning), yet did have a something of a cultural center. He'd chosen a route that would take them through a corner of Madison and near other small towns once they got off at Exit 114. Turn left, and one went through Madison and eventually to Athens. Turn right, and there was Eatonton (main claims to fame: authors Alice Walker and Joel Chandler Harris, and until about 2005, the Nuwabian Nation of Moors), a couple of unincorporated communities, and then Milledgeville.

The truck stop where they gassed up didn't sell pointy things beyond pocketknives, just tourist gewgaws in addition to the clothes, electronics, and other items needed by long-haul truckers and travelers. Athens was 40 miles away, but there was still University of Georgia gear available. Neither youth was surprised to see the motels and restaurants clustered around the exit (including a Cracker Barrel and the ubiquitous Waffle House). Then onto 441, and they were soon in farm country.

441 was mostly two-lane, with occasional stretches of three lanes. Houses ranged from well-kept dwellings of various ages down to shabby and ill-kept (and, yes, the occasional trailer), and there were plenty of decrepit, abandoned, buildings (although the small size of several argued they were former outbuildings for the local farms). Cattle grazed in fenced pastures, and Ken thought he spotted some chickens too close to the road.

At the halfway point between Madison and Milledgeville, they came across a – Wal-Mart Superstore. Joe pulled over so they could laugh their asses off. The only thing better would have been a Waffle House next door.

"Care to try out Eatonton?" Joe asked. "Or on to Milledgeville?"

Milledgeville. What was there? "Let's try Milledgeville."

* * *

Rural gave way to the area around Lake Sinclair, where both suspected the residents were well-off retirees and people with money. At the same time, all the businesses were (or seemed) local, from restaurants to furniture to farm equipment, to a gun store, and even a few nightspots (if that was indeed what they were). The convenience stores were franchises of national or regional chains. If they had seen anything approaching the storied family-owned businesses, those must have been the few antiques dealers and small, non-affiliated convenience stores and motels between Madison and Milledgeville.

As they crossed a narrow part of the lake, they saw a Georgia Power facility and a condo development with a great view of it. "Some people just have to have the waterfront property," Joe commented.

"At least Ryu doesn't have to see a power plant."

A stretch of small-business-lined road. Convenience stores, a couple of equipment dealers, restaurants.

Then Milledgeville itself, with a Wal-Mart Supercenter and associated shopping plaza, local franchises of chain restaurants, insurance companies, motels, automobile dealerships, and other, truly local, businesses. In this area, it could almost have been one of the town/bedroom communities outside Atlanta. Right down to a Starbucks at the local (but small) mall.

They debated which of the motels to stay in. Super 8? Puh-leeze. Days Inn? Hampton Inn and Suites? Well, maybe. The Holiday Inn?

A bit further, and the modern-looking section of town merged into older buildings. Former houses now turned into businesses, and other buildings housing the most recent commercial occupants. Once past the Lowe's (and Waffle House), they were truly among the original roads and buildings, including an Economy Inn that had clearly once been under another name. Mixed residential and small business area.

Okay. Joe turned around and drove to the Days Inn. At least for sleeping, they would go with the chain over the local. After checking in and locating their room, they unloaded the car.

"I'm starting to think that finding an 'odd little town' is harder than it looks in the movies," Ken said.

"It's the interstate system in this country. Smoothed out the zig-zags. You have to get off the road that's off the road that exited the interstate, then decide you know better than the GPS or the map." Joe dropped a stack of brochures on the bed. "Got these in the lobby."

They'd seen a water tower that declared the town the 'Antebellum Capital of Georgia', and several businesses had 'Old Capital' in their names. The former Capitol building and Governor's Mansion were both tour spots. There were also two or three colleges in town, which (along with the folks on Lake Sinclair) was why the place wasn't drying up. Andalusia, where Flannery O'Connor (whoever she was) had lived.

Ken checked his phone. His voice mail was full, as was his text in-box. All of it routine stuff. Just about every call or text for help was eventually matched by a 'We handled it' follow-up. _I really should stop sweating the small stuff_. He cleared both caches.

"There's a museum for the local psychiatric hospital," Joe said. "It's on the hospital grounds."

Their stomachs rumbled. Although there was a Pizza Hut practically in the parking lot, they decided to go elsewhere.

Ken opened the brochure that listed restaurants. "There's a Thai restaurant in town."

"Where?" Joe unpacked his laptop entered the address into the 'Get driving directions', and snickered. "Near the Wal-Mart. Let's check it out."

* * *

"I think," Ken said as they waited for their food, "that if we want the real local cuisine, we'll have to look around."

"Assuming there's any left that isn't literally home cooking."

Kai Thai was not large, and rather nicely decorated with presumably Thai cloth hangings and a few other Thai-theme items (including a large picture of a night-lit city). The staff wore T-shirts blazoned with 'We'll make you cry', and every dish on the menu could be spiced to taste (five levels, starting at mild and ending with the promise of tears). Joe had ordered the spiciest, and Ken had settled for the middle (which was still strong).

Neither mentioned the lack of Galactor action or incidents so far. If they were lucky, they could have a vacation that was not interrupted by calls from the ISO or UN. It would be a first for the team.

"We had a bit of a drive," Joe said, when he could talk again. The 'make you cry' level had just about done him in. "We could veg out tonight and make our plans for tomorrow."

"I saw a movie theater at the mall, and a couple of video places."

"Always Turner Classic Movies on TV."

A few young women walked in. "College?" Joe whispered, giving them the once-over. The women returned the favor.

"We could ask, but I think that would be tacky," Ken murmured, adding his admiration.

They walked out – and stopped dead.

"We did park there," Ken said. "Right?"

"Pretty sure we did." They'd found a spot almost in front of the door. Now empty. Joe looked up and down the line a bit, just in case they were off. No black Toyota Corolla.

"Damn," was the most polite thing Joe had to say. Then he dialed 911. "Good thing I bought the insurance."

Yes, the men who responded had Southern drawls, but they were a long way from the 'Redneck County Line' stereotypes of bad 1970s/1980s movies. After taking statements, they gave the name of a taxi company, and the location of an Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

* * *

"They'll be disappointed in their haul," Ken said, after they got to their room. Getting another rental would have to wait for tomorrow.

"Whoever it is probably thought we'd just arrived."

Joe turned on the television, found TCM, and they settled in to watch a movie while finishing up their plans for the next few days.

Both were asleep within a half hour of setting down the last brochure.

* * *

In the morning, they walked to the rental place, it was that close.

The woman at the desk was sympathetic and distressed at their situation, and they rented another Toyota Corolla, this one in white.

For today, they had decided on a tour of the old Governor's Mansion. Another surprise: it wasn't a huge white building with side wings that stretched forever. It was a sort of pink-beige color (including columns), and six windows wide (and about that in depth). No side wings. An outbuilding contained a small museum displaying some of the artifacts found on the site, and a short history of its use and restoration. The postage-stamp-sized gift shop sold books by local authors and Flannery O'Connor (Ken decided he would look her up once they got back to their room), some jewelry (a nice, retro necklace and earrings for Jun – chosen after his usual dithering), and other knick-knacks.

_Gone With The Wind_ had led them to expect huge interior rooms (which would have taken up most of a floor). Instead, not only were the kitchen and associated rooms fairly small, but the one reception room was almost filled with the single long table and chairs. Its ceiling was surprisingly low. Both tried to imagine women with huge skirts making their way through any decent-sized gathering, and failed.

Every room was smaller than they thought. The only high ceiling was under the rotunda, where they could look up a couple of stories.

As they left, they heard some of the other guests on the tour. A number of them had missed the (unspoken and probably unintended) point of parts of the tour, while others were deep in thought. There was certainly plenty to think about.

"There's another museum, in its own building, or we could check out the trolley tour of historic homes." Joe wasn't being sarcastic. This trip was interesting in its own way. Milledgeville had been planned as a capital, and had an actual street grid in downtown.

"How about lunch?" Ken was thinking they could make a 'tour' of downtown. Try to guess which businesses were original to the buildings housing them.

They would tour the Central State Hospital museum tomorrow. Joe had called to make the arrangements. He now set the GPS on his phone. "Let's find the hospital museum, and look for restaurants on the way."

From the area around the Old Governor's Mansion (older houses now converted for Georgia College and State University use), through middle-class residential neighborhoods (and houses converted to apartments), past closed industrial buildings, more equipment dealers and light industrial facilities, a turn onto Vinson Highway, and into a lower-class neighborhood. "I'll lay odds this area has come down over the years," Ken remarked. "You'd think that it would be better off."

"Hate to think anyone who used to work at the hospital got screwed," Joe commented. "Them or their heirs stuck with property they can't even give away, now."

They passed several buildings on the right, looking for street names. Then they found the signs.

The big, obvious, attractive sign, white lettering on grey, read 'Georgia War Veterans Home', and was on the left of the entrance to the grounds. On the right was an aged green sign (with white lettering) that read 'CENTRAL STATE HOSPITAL' with 'and Georgia War Veterans Home' beneath.

No fence, except around the veterans' home parking lot. No barriers of any sort. No guard shack.

Joe turned in. Veterans' facility to the left, a couple of modern-looking buildings in that bland yellowish brick, to the right an older, large red brick building. It looked like two halves connected by a ground-level section, and as they passed, they saw one outbuilding and what was probably the emergency generator and fuel store for same. A junction with a road coming up from the right, then an older building (a dental clinic), and a road in from the left, marked by another nice sign for the veterans' home. Then past clapboard houses on either side of the road (the speed-bumps showed interesting scars where idiots had gone over at speed), a line of old brick buildings to the right, a road, then a grove of pecan trees. To the left, a large white building with a darkened copper dome that looked more appropriate to government than a hospital, and was the size and appearance they had imagined for the Old Governor's Mansion (with a fountain in front).

The pecan grove was central to a double line of old buildings, most plainly no longer used. "If you need the necessary creepy-looking old buildings for your movie, pick here," Ken said. "They all look like the sorts of places where mad scientists would hang out." Or under which Galactor would hide a base.

The museum was housed in an old train station just past the pecan grove. No sign of the old tracks, although when they passed, they spotted a pair of rails heading towards a single-story brick building shaped like a squared-off U. Ken thought perhaps individual freight cars might have been backed into the central area. There was a chain-link fence across the entrance and down one side of the building.

"Not at all what I thought it would be," Joe said.

"Yeah. I was thinking of a single building, like one of those at the grove, or the big white one, with maybe some outbuildings, and a fence with some sort of access control."

"And we haven't been challenged once."

A little vehicle that looked more appropriate to an airport or golf course instead of a mental hospital passed by them. In the absurdly tiny cargo area was what looked like a package of ceiling tile, and there was a long cardboard box beside the driver. On top, a little yellow light flashed.

Then Joe whimpered. "You'd think the state could do better by their vehicles. Tell me they purr like kittens."

Two Crown Victorias badly in need of new finish and some cosmetic body work passed by, followed by an old Ford pickup with ladders and other gear fastened to a rack. All three sported state decals on the doors.

Joe turned their rental around in a little area outside the odd-shaped building and headed towards Vinson Highway.

The laden golf-cart-thing passed them in the other direction, followed by a massive truck with a food-supply company logo on the trailer. Curious, Joe turned again and trailed them, and discovered the state employee was playing friendly native guide to the truck driver. And that one of the large buildings on the hospital campus was the kitchen.

"Back we go, before we get too turned around," he said, backtracking. It _looked_ like he could follow the road around, but he wasn't taking the chance. He'd seen maps on a couple of corners, and the roads reminded him of spaghetti. And he still smarted over getting lost at the airport.

Just past the museum building was an intersection. "Care to take the risk?" he asked.

"Why not?"

On a hill to their left was a building labeled 'Binion Building' with a sign saying WE MOVED in front. To their right were brick-and-concrete tanks, with signs requesting people to keep off. More frame houses, one plainly abandoned, then another lower-rent neighborhood.

At a T-intersection, Joe turned right, towards town.

Ken wondered why the neighborhoods around the hospital were so run-down. He'd looked up Central State that morning, and learned it was so old that people once associated the town with the hospital. According to the articles, it had been the largest such hospital in Ameris, so it might have once been the primary employer. It seemed logical to him that employees should live in the immediate area. Maybe, before the automobile became ubiquitous, they had. And maybe the state had stepped in to prevent the hiring of relatives and friends, or new employees just didn't move any closer (why do that when they could drive?). Then the vagaries of town growth and regional economy had further driven down the property values.

Hell, the place looked like a ghost of itself. From the largest in Ameris to what they had seen – that would have affected property values as employees moved on or out.

Could the ISO cut a deal with the state and use some of those abandoned buildings? Their outsides had looked sound, and the insides could be renovated. Just make sure only authorized personnel could enter.

Ken's phone rang. Ignoring Joe's glare, he checked the number. "It's Jun. May I answer?"

"Asshole."

"You love me anyway." He chuckled. "Hey, Jun. What's up?"

"Jinpei annoyed me until I called. Here he is."

"Aniki, you having fun yet? Meet any rednecks or bootleggers or whatever they're called? How hot is it?" And on and on, including a request for a pet.

When the boy paused for breath, Ken said, "We've had it pretty good, but it's only the second day. No bootleggers, and I don't know about rednecks. And you know the rules about transporting animals overseas."

"You can try, can't you?" To a loud, determined, 'No!' in the background of the call.

"Your sister has spoken," Ken said. "You can barely manage the pets you have now." He heard Joe's chuckle. "Now, if I have the time difference right, shouldn't you be doing homework?"

"Aww, come on, aniki…," came the wheedle.

"It doesn't work when I'm in the room, Jinpei, so it won't work now."

A few more protests, then Jinpei surrendered the phone to Jun. "He's trying to make me promise to take him when I have the chance."

"Well, we don't come to this country much," Ken said. "But tell him the movies don't tell the whole truth about this part of it."

"You mean there's some truth to them? I bet Joe's been holding the phone, too."

"He just gives me the evil eye whenever I touch it. I lied a bit to Jinpei. Our rental car was stolen yesterday. After we had unpacked it."

"Including your porn stash?" Teasing.

"I left that home. So did Joe." He wished they had porn stashes. "Any requests?"

"Oh, I'm not putting you through that. I tell you what I want and you start obsessing. That girl at the mall still wants to throttle you."

He'd tried to find the perfect perfume for Jun, and could not make up his mind. By the time he made his decision, he had rendered that corner of the mall almost unbearable with the mixture of scents.

Joe, typically, had found what he wanted within two spritzes.

"We'll give you all the gory details when we get back. Joe's driving, or I'd give him the phone. And yes, the town's still standing."

"Smartass," Joe muttered. In a normal tone: "Nobody's pissed me off. This is turning out better than I thought it would. And I'd better stop talking before I jinx it."

After a little more small talk, Jun hung up, and Ken shut his phone.

They made their way to downtown Milledgeville, where they found plenty of signs of change in the town. There were restaurants and stores that plainly catered to the college crowd, and of the rest, only a few places were obviously new to the buildings (or at the least, not the original tenants of the space).

Whatever the natives might think of the students, the colleges were keeping the town alive.

They opted to stop at one of the restaurants, one with outside tables. Not many customers.

"I see a lot of potential for the ISO around here," Joe said.

"I was thinking the same thing. Must be a lot of technically- or mechanically-trained people who need work. Every one of the closed buildings has the water and power laid in. Refit some of them, provide some paid internships or training for qualified high school students, contract repair work to locals." The biofuel project could work on the kudzu. God knew there was enough of it.

A copy of the _Baldwin Bulletin_ was on a nearby chair. Ken opened it and found a section labeled 'Ask an Old-Timer/Blue Hair.' One fellow was griping about 'hippies' who didn't get their hair cut, while the other two (a man and a woman) were a little more forgiving.

"We should show him that picture of the last time you cut your hair."

"You kept it?" Of course Joe would have kept it.

"Uh-huh."

As hard-to-control as his hair was when long, Ken (and everyone else) agreed that was better than his occasional attempts at short hair. When cut, it spiked up like anime hair, but without the aesthetic appeal. Attempting to control the spikes with hairspray or gel made him look like those twerps on the idiotic reality shows about over-privileged young adults (spray tan and popped collar optional).

"I don't suppose I can convince you to get rid of it."

"This way, I can remind you whenever you start thinking you should try short hair." A wicked grin. "Hedgehog."

"Hedgehogs are cute."

"So are you."

Uh-oh. Looked like Joe was in the mood. "You might keep a lid on that. Given where we are." Small town in the Amerisian South.

"Saving it up for when we get back home."

Ken crossed his legs.

A waitress came over and took their order.

After lunch, they found some places to browse in. Ken spotted a trading card game that Jinpei had wanted since forever, and clamped on his habit of dithering. At an antiques store, he did have reason to dither, as there were some racing-themed tin signs that suited Joe. Finally, he just closed his eyes and grabbed one.

Joe kept his comments to himself. He bargained a reasonable price for a mantelpiece clock that practically had Jun's name written on it, and for a vintage model of an airplane for Ken.

* * *

Except for the stolen car, a good trip so far. Ken sat back and watched the scenery as Joe drove.

The car jerked to a stop. "There it is!"

He followed Joe's pointing finger.

Their original rented car, with the front wedged firmly under the rear of a U-Haul truck and two Milledgeville Police cars on the scene, lights flashing. Two young men wearing jeans and T-shirts sat on the grass, their hands behind their backs in a way that screamed 'handcuffs', while an officer took a statement from a young woman who apparently had been driving the U-Haul.

Joe stopped and got out, debated approaching. By now, the police had to have checked on the car and learned it was stolen. So he tried to figure out how the thieves had managed to get the vehicle into that interesting mess without turning it into a ball of crumpled metal.

An officer approached. "Yes, sir?"

"We reported that car stolen yesterday." He dug out the cards the officers had given him.

"Oh. Give us a little while, and we'll have some information for you to give the rental company and your insurance company."

"Thanks."

One of the car thieves looked him over. Joe favored him with Condor Expression #1.

Punks had one of two reactions to that facial expression: they either backed off (showing they were smart), or started yapping like Chihuahuas (showing they were idiots). Joe had more respect for real Chihuahuas.

Either the handcuffs had dampened his enthusiasm, or the kid was smarter than he appeared: he immediately pretended he'd been looking at something else.

The police finished up, and Joe had more things to tuck into his wallet. "Nobody even touches my car," he said, as he resumed driving.

"Your car has a giant 2 on it. It stands out. Race fans know whose car that is, and those who don't think it's not worth stealing because it looks like a 1970s Skyline. Nobody can see what you have under the hood unless you open it up."

_Ken, Ken, Ken. And I can tell you just realized the lead-in you handed me._ The mighty Eagle had the cutest blush. "Nobody pops my hood without an invitation."

Ken's phone rang.

Joe glared at him. _Don't you dare. I anticipate making out tonight, and I don't want you distracted._

Ken kept his hands to himself.

Joe's phone rang. The airstrip. "Why are they calling me?" He pulled in at a convenience store and answered. "This better be important – Oh, shit."

A fire at the airstrip.

"Ken, I hope your insurance is paid up. Call them."

Ken did, while Joe prepared to keep him from rushing back for anything less than a crippling injury, or the loss of a life, a plane or a building. As long as the investigator wasn't some eager-beaver who thought of every case as The Big One, and every claimant as a criminal, Ken could probably spend at least a few more days in Ameris before going back. _You couldn't have waited?_ he asked the universe. So much for tonight.

At least it wasn't Galactor ruining the vacation.

He watched as Ken got out of the car and walked in circles, talking and occasionally gesturing. By the body language, nobody had been seriously hurt, but there was some property damage. Not a fire in the office wastebasket, then. But was it enough for Ken to cut this trip short? If it was, he'd go back, too.

"Shit," Ken said, getting back in the car. "Hangar 18. Nobody knows how it started, but everything inside is ruined, either by fire, smoke, or water."

"At least it's that one, and not one of the others." 18 had become a storage building for aircraft parts and tools. Not so much as a bolt out of place, and the only stains on the floor were old ones.

"I suppose. Let me guess: we're not going back."

"Are you needed right away?"

"Zach said they had everything under control, and it would take a couple of days before they'd need me to sign off on anything. Like you keep telling me, they can handle problems when I'm away."

"Any idea how the fire started? I mean, I know how clean that place is, and you keep everything up to code." One reason Ken had a huge tab at the J: keeping up with the strip's operating expenses.

"That's what the investigators will find out. I just hope it's a crew that didn't get their education from out-of-date textbooks."

Joe nodded. An ISO employee they knew had nearly been arrested for arson because an investigator couldn't tell the melt pattern of cheap carpeting from accelerant pour, and was convinced the 'alligator pattern' on a wooden wall meant the fire had been deliberately started there (rather than that a hurricane lamp had broken and the fuel leaked during the fire, creating a hot spot). "If you want to go back, how about a deal? We finish today, make the tour of the hospital museum tomorrow morning, then catch a plane home. There might even be an ISO flight we can hitch a ride on."

"You know me too well."

"Yeah, well, if I owned the track, and something like that happened, I'd be antsy, too. You never know how people will react. We could hustle back to Utoland City right now, and the investigator might find it 'significant' in all the wrong ways. Especially when you start butting in."

"Joe…."

"Tell me I'm wrong." The same quality that made Ken micromanage the strip and the team made him go solo during missions. Let Ken hit the airstrip while investigators were there, and his attempts to be cooperative would look more like efforts to misdirect.

"You aren't."

"Let them poke around to their heart's content. You'll be settled down, the worst will be over, and everyone can make statements and sign forms until their hands hurt." _And I should know about the need for time to calm down_. Where Ken tended to run off half-cocked, he tended to shoot first and think about it later. He was getting better at it, but Ken – Well, they were works in progress.

So, back to the motel, where he tried to figure out an itinerary. There was a small airport in Milledgeville, but he doubted Hakase would spring for a plane to Atlanta (assuming there was someone to fly them). Nobody had died, and the airstrip was in one piece. Not only that, it was more than likely that the combined time of calling around, finding out prices, booking a plane, and flying to Atlanta would equal the drive time (or be close enough to not matter).

No, he'd just look into flights home and try to find one that was inexpensive and not in the wee hours. And if there was an ISO flight they could hop, they wouldn't have to pay (or go through the theater of the absurd known as Amerisian airport security).

Fortunately, there was an ISO flight, with a stopover in Amegapolis, leaving in the evening.

Ken, meanwhile, was on the phone to Hakase. Before he'd turned eighteen, Nambu had managed the airstrip, and still did when missions interfered with his duties there. If anything needed immediate, right-this-moment attention, Nambu could handle it.

Joe called the insurance company and the rental company and got the stolen car incident straightened out.

This time, they headed for the video rental place, which had a Domino's right beside it. Too bad for the Domino's: there was that Pizza Hut next to the motel.

"Tell me why we didn't just order something over the computer," Ken asked.

"Browsing's fun."

"_Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter_?" Not that Ken was complaining.

"Says the guy who picked up _Spirited Away_." As if they hadn't watched _My Neighbor Totoro_ as kids.

* * *

When the TV in the next room suddenly erupted in sound, they looked at each other. They didn't know their neighbor, but this didn't seem right.

Rather than involve the manager, Ken and Joe decided to go over. Sometimes, people don't think. A polite word can resolve many situations.

Ken knocked, strained his ears.

Below the sounds of an annoying commercial, he thought he heard a man's voice. By the tone, the man was threatening someone.

Quickly, he signed an alert to Joe.

A young man, naked, answered the door. "Yeah?" he demanded.

Ken glanced past him. A pale, terrified-looking woman held a sheet to her chest. "Your TV is rather loud," he said. "Is everything okay?"

The woman mouthed 'No,' and shook her head.

"Sure. Me and her like a little noise when we fuck."

"She likes getting bitten?" Joe asked. "I think I see blood in your spit."

Surprised, the man floundered for a reply, then slammed the door.

It wasn't locked. Ken led the charge inside.

There was no escape. With two angry ninjas in the room, he did the only thing possible: he tried to bluster that she'd invited him inside, that the sex was consensual, and it was none of their business anyway.

While Ken saw to the woman, Joe shut the idiot up.

The responding police officers were surprised. All too many times, people simply griped about the noise and carried on with their lives.

* * *

The museum at Central State Hospital was very small. Antique medical instruments, including those used for lobotomies, exhibits of old nursing uniforms, photographs, and reproductions of induction documents. People had come to the hospital from all over the country. The first electroshock machine, which wasn't as large or imposing as the treatment's reputation. A brief history of the hospital, which had started as an asylum for lunatics, idiots and epileptics (which words were in the name when it first opened).

After that, they went to lunch at a little place recommended by the tour guide. A left turn out of the parking lot, follow a road that passed between the disused Binion building (with a sign in front that read 'We Moved'), and some brick-and-concrete water tanks. Basic fried chicken, some sides, and tea.

Back at their motel, they packed. Might as well head for Atlanta now.

So of course, Ken's phone rang. Dr. Nambu.

The fire was arson, and the perpetrator had left plenty of evidence, including fingerprints. There was a cut in the fencing around the airstrip.

Ken couldn't think of anyone who would have a reason to set a fire. No-one wanted to buy the airstrip, nor was he involved in any disputes, since the area was not zoned for residential use and none of his neighbors was expanding operations. Galactor would not have started with a hangar.

Nambu tried to talk him out of returning so soon. Ken felt that if he was there, he might see some clue others had missed. And weren't there some papers to sign?

Silence much of the way to Atlanta. "A long way for nothing," Ken muttered. "Gonna make a trip like that, make it worthwhile."

"It's not like you knew this would happen. Bet it turns out to be some punk kids."

"Wonder if they'll think it's so funny when they're helping clean up?"

* * *

Their trip back to Utoland City was uneventful. The ISO flight held the crew of one of the undersea facilities, headed home after their deployment.

After a restless night in Joe's trailer, Ken went to the airstrip. He damn near got carpal tunnel signing the various forms required for him to collect his insurance.

Hangar 18 wasn't a complete loss, but it would take a lot of work to return to any use. The arsonist(s) had gone to a lot of effort. Too much to be stupid kids. He tried to remember if he'd annoyed anyone enough for them to think this was proper revenge. (Besides Galactor agents.)

When he returned to the shack, he found Joe waiting. "I knew I'd find you here. Now that you've settled this, maybe you can relax and have fun."

"Fun? What's that?" And it didn't feel like a joke today.

"Come on. Drive you to the J."

At the restaurant, Ken cut off Jinpei's snarky comments by giving him the trading cards. With a happy whoop, the boy disappeared upstairs.

After he told Jun about the fire, she teased him that he could now pay off his tab from the insurance payout.

"Very funny. I did get you something." He handed over the box with the necklace and earrings.

"It's beautiful! Thank you." She gave him a hug, and held the pieces against her neck and ears to see how they looked.

"See?" Joe murmured. "You can do it."

"Yeah, and you'll top me."

"It's not a contest, Ken." He pushed the clock over.

"This is perfect, Joe." A hug for him. "It will pull everything on that one shelf together. Thank you." She looked at Ken. "And I know just what to wear this with."

Oh, _that_ outfit. Calidon had given it to Jun after the Monalince mission, as a thank you. Yes, the necklace and earrings would complete it perfectly.

Joe's phone chimed with a text message. He read it, eyebrows rising. "Hakase. He wants us to resume our vacation. I guess we were making him crazy."

"What's that Amerisian saying?" Jun asked. "Right: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' Not that you two are ever dull."

Well, Ken reflected, they did have to return for the trial of that dumbass.

* * *

No trial. Both the woman and her attacker were visitors to Milledgeville. He'd used the 'Oh, I have the wrong room' ruse. Apparently thinking he'd get a jury of homicidal rednecks eager to fry a Yankee, he'd pled guilty and was now serving the sentence. That the two witnesses against him were ISO employees probably played a part.

The next couple of days were mostly uneventful. A tour of Andalusia, that almost ended when Ken saw the peacocks. Their Asham mission was barely three weeks past, and he still got the shakes when he thought how close he'd come to being a literal white shadow.

He'd looked up Flannery O'Connor, and wondered if he was too foreign to 'get' her work. Maybe later, he'd read some of her stories.

Another visit to the Central State Hospital campus. They drove past several buildings that had been converted to prisons (now closed), and stopped at a little gazebo-like structure near some woods. Lines of little metal markers had gotten their attention. Inside the structure, they found the reason: this was a cemetery for the hospital's patients.

At the museum, they'd learned the hospital had been self-supporting until after the middle of the 20th Century. It had grown its own food, raised its own chickens and livestock, and still had the acreage. The patients (clients, consumers, or whatever the latest euphemism was) had spent their lives in the hospital, and when they died, many were also buried on the grounds. Not all of them had come from impoverished families who could not afford funeral expenses, either.

Such small markers, closely packed. How had the dead been buried?

"Here lie the 'good old days,' when people were decent to each other," Joe murmured. "Right."

Ken crouched, saw numbers on the markers. No doubt, anyone who asked could find out where a long-forgotten relative was buried. He tried to imagine an era where mental illness was considered so shameful that sufferers were shut away and never mentioned in public, and weren't even brought home after death. "Come on, Joe."

"Yeah."

At least these dead had markers. At least these markers had bodies under them. And maybe the visitors were distant relatives, but at least they had a place to come to.

Joe wanted to put an arm around Ken. Most people didn't know how much sadness and anger were concealed under that seemingly open, guileless face. Ken felt he had to keep it together and present that face to the world. When the facade cracked – well, that was why Ken got stupid around his father, and briefly went off the deep end after the man's death.

He knew how Ken felt. After BC Island, he knew far too well.

"Ken, I have the monopoly on the 'brooding loner bad boy' look," he said. "Let's go see if we can continue staying out of trouble."

"Sorry."

* * *

So far, so good. Not a hint of Galactor. They stayed out of the local bars. Both were quite good at flirting with the ladies, but neither wanted to bring down the wrath of brothers or boyfriends. What constituted flirting in Utoland City might be a bit different in Milledgeville.

Of course, there were still rumors of Galactor. These days, just about every peculiar event was blamed on Galactor. No matter how many mundane explanations, the UN and ISO dealt with reports of Galactor activity that had to be investigated.

Then they headed for Macon. A music hall of fame, and a sports hall of fame were there, and they wanted to see what else the city had to offer.

The part of downtown Macon they visited had seen better days. Banks buildings, the post office, and City Hall were surrounded by buildings with a variety of small businesses on the lower floors (if they weren't completely empty).

They debated whether to stay at the Riverview (with no view of any river, at least, not any more), or the Radisson. Since it was only for a night, they went with the Riverview.

Both halls of fame were on their itinerary. The music hall of fame in the morning, then lunch at the nearest Waffle House (other restaurants were closed).

They had checked hours for restaurants near the halls, and realized they'd be having supper. The restaurants had to do business when they had customers. They decided on a place called the Acapulco.

This was located on the ground floor of the Dempsey Apartments, formerly the Dempsey Hotel. To judge by the number of people (some quite elderly) with walkers and scooters sitting outside, the Dempsey was occupied by those who lived on Social Security or other public assistance.

After the sports hall of fame, and a look around the area (full of buildings that looked to date back to the early 20th Century), they had dinner and went to their room.

* * *

Ken awoke at 3 in the morning, bladder full. On his way to the bathroom, he sniffed the air. Did he smell gas? There wasn't any gas in this place.

He woke Joe.

"Huh? What is – that smell?"

They dressed and opened the door. "I knew it was too good to last," Ken said.

It was worse outside. But they didn't cough or gag. There were no emergency vehicles in the streets.

"Let's not transmute if we don't have to," he told Joe. "Let's check the Dempsey. Those folks didn't look too mobile."

"Damn, I didn't think anything could smell like that without involving too much beer and a bunch of college kids."

It was a strange smell. Sort of like gas, but not gas. He called Dr. Nambu and reported it.

The intersection nearest the Dempsey was empty except for police cars and uniformed officers. As Ken and Joe approached on foot, a woman wearing a security guard's uniform came out of the apartment building. "What happened?" she asked the officers.

"We don't know," one said. "The fire department's checking on it."

"Be nice to know," she said. "Some of the people here can't get around very well."

No protective clothing, just the fire department. When Ken called 911, the dispatcher admitted the smell had reached them.

But, on empty streets at the wee hours of the morning, two young men wandering around with no particular destination would look suspicious. Ken and Joe ducked down an alley behind the Dempsey, avoiding the parking area (and possible cameras) and transmuted. Then they used the bank parking deck across from the Dempsey to gain some height, and tried to follow their noses.

After an hour, the smell faded. By five in the morning, it was gone completely.

* * *

But not before the ISO emergency line had received a number of reports.

As the only two ISO operatives on the scene, Ken and Joe tried to investigate.

By the time a team arrived from Atlanta, the air was clear. A tenant coming out of the Dempsey said it was probably from the paper plant.

The leader of the investigative team thought there might still be some traces of the odor in the Dempsey. The guard, unsure about letting them in to take samples, called her supervisor once her surprise wore off.

Ken sympathized. Her duties were access control and locking up. Having Gatchaman in her lobby with an ISO science team was not covered in the regulations.

After a few words with her supervisor, she asked the investigative team for their identification and signed them in.

"I think we'd better leave," Joe said. "We don't exactly have photo ID, do we?"

* * *

"And that was our last day of vacation," Ken said to Jun, Jinpei, and Ryu.

"The city farted," Jinpei cracked. Jun swatted him.

They'd come back and made their report to Dr. Nambu. Then they'd presented their travel gifts to him. (As usual, Joe had managed to find – as far as Ken was concerned – the best one: a set of early 20th Century surgeon's instruments. Had Ken not given his gift – an antique pocket watch – first, he would have chickened out. They'd both managed to negotiate decent prices. The watch needed repair, and the instruments were used.)

"Thing is, it did turn out to be the paper plant. Some part of their yearly maintenance, or something like that," Joe said.

Ryu had set aside the box of fishing flies Ken gave him to listen to the story. "I envy you two. Me and Jinpei went on vacation and found Galactor."

"Well, we got lucky. Maybe if you tried again," Ken suggested.

"Maybe."

* * *

**Author's note:** All the buildings and towns mentioned in this story are real. So is the newspaper _The Baldwin Bulletin_, and there _is_ a barber in Milledgeville who hasn't forgiven the Sixties for almost putting him out of business (among other complaints). Yeah, he's a reactionary, but he often has a point.

The Macon stink really happened. I was on duty that night, and so worried about what might happen that I stayed three hours over just in case. (I had been on shift 10 hours by that time, and between tiredness and concern I wasn't thinking clearly.) No, I never found out what it was, so I went with the paper plant explanation that a tenant provided. The way he spoke, I figured he knew by experience.

There were some events that I wanted to use, but since they involved Central State Hospital, they might have violated a policy or two.


End file.
